Partners in Crime
by equine02
Summary: Race couldn't imagine stepping onto pain like knifes or no feeling at all. He couldn't imagine the start of a fever, and the thought that it was just another cold, and then waking up a week later, weak and unable to use a limb, or all of them, maybe. Crutchie had had it easy and hard all at once. Race had been dished all the tough stuff in life, but it didn't mean he had to eat it
1. Dreams

**Based on a prompt by SomedayonBroadway for a brotherly fic for Crutchie and/or Race (heck, I chose both, of course), in which aforementioned lovable idiots are soaked by two notorious bros and thus Jack does what Jack does best…. Hope you guys enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it, because I plan on another chapter or two:) I apologize for it's unedited state and my evil autocorrect. Hope it all worked out.**

 **Disclaimer: You know I don't**

Race dragged his hand across his eyes. His head throbbed with sleep still, even though he'd been awake for almost ten minutes, taking in the stuffy air and lack of cigar. From somewhere in the darkness he heard thick, fast breathing. Rolling out of what little excuse for a bed he had, he moved across the room, feet bare and slapping the cold boards.

"Crutchie?" He leaned down and touched the younger boy's arm. Crutchie flinched away.

"Nah, get 'em off me, please!" Crutchie mumbled. "J'ck, dey's beatin' us!"

"Crutchie, c'mon kid. Wakes up." Race moved his lips to reposition a cigar that wasn't there. His brows drew together tightly. "Wakes up!"

Cruthchie bolted upright. His face was sweaty and his hair flat on the back from sleeping.

"Race?" he breathed a breath as hard as iron into the flat August air as soon as he found the other boy in the darkness. "Y-youse good?"

"Huh, youse the one wi'dah rollin' around act, kid. Dreams?"

Race swung himself gently onto the bed, sitting on the side. Crutchie tried to bring his legs over the side as well, but his face contorted in pain, and then a half-smile-half-grimace took over his face.

"Guess I sould think dees things tru." He leaned back, clothing his eyes.

"So dreams?" prompted the older boy, reaching into his shirt pocket, where an old, much thinner-than-usual cigar was hidden. Not lighting it, he allowed the thing to hang from his mouth while he chewed on the end. Crutchie nodded slowly.

"I gots it stuck in my head some nights… 'bout the Refuge. Ise gotta get out of it, but I can't. Every time. And then deres Jack. Ise keep dreaming he's stuck there too, but he's soaked good. Can't even stand. Ise keep dreamin' he's got a crutch too."

"Sos? More papes for 'im."

"He wants to make Santa Fe, Race. He can't do dat with a bum leg. Gonna ride Palaminos."

"Pala-what nows?"

"I honest don't know. Must be like a kind of horse out 'dere. Can't ride with no gimp leg."

"Sure can't."

"How do you know?"

"Well Ise ridden them horses. See it was a long time ago, one time only. Got on that big brown monstah and took off. Relative's farm. Nearly lost my everything, all that wind blowin' an' those big angry hooves. Nothin' romintic like 'bout ridin' skinny cows. But it surely takes both legs, I tell you."

Crutchie nodded in the pause after Race's comment."Well he was crippled anyways."

The two drank the dark silence for a moment.

"'Ehy Crutchie, youse don't minds me askin'... How'd you get the bum leg anyhows? Always known yah to have it, ever since Jack picked youse out of a wastebin on 3d an' Croftbarrah. I remembers it well."

"Yeah, I bet you remembers it." Crutchie grinned, "You ate all the bread in my pockets." His face fell, "Course I couldn't do much wit' bread anyways. Was pretty sick. I got the leg when I got the Polio. I was, hmm, mebbe six."

Race tilted his head back, and dragged the cigar out of his mouth for a moment, and like it was lit, blew his tobacco breath into the air, "Hmm." He felt bad for the kid in most ways except one. Papes. Fake or not, Ladies, if they were regular ladies, not like Katherine or Miss Medda- Miss Medda especially, who'd probably never touched a pape in her life- had hearts like butter when it came to cute, almost good looking fellas like Crutchie with a limp, as they sagged their weight a little more than usual on their crutches, and maybe groan, or make an exaggerated face of agony as they clutched papers to their skinny chests. Why, Race himself had pulled the stunt a few times. Once last winter, when Crutchie's leg had stiffened up too much for work, Race had borrowed the crutch and ditched his cigars for a day to look even poorer, and more pitiful than ever in his whole life (and he'd smoked for about seven years now, so it was possibly the hardest day of his known life). He spent the whole day hobbling around, frequently sitting down and coughing into his elbow midway through harking a headline. He got almost twice as much cash as usual. This was easy stuff. Crutchie had it in the bag if you asked him.

And then, Race couldn't imagine stepping onto pain like knifes or no feeling at all. He couldn't imagine the start of a fever, and the thought that it was just another cold, and then waking up a week later, weak and unable to use a limb, or all of them, maybe. Crutchie had had it easy and hard all at once. Race had been dished all the tough stuff in life, but it didn't mean he had to eat it. His voice was the one to listen to if Jack wasn't around, and he liked it that way.

"You should go ta bed." Crutchie sighed. Race glanced out the window.

"Dahwn." He said through the cigar, staring at the bleeding orange sky. Any minute the circulation bell would complain below them, and covers would be thrown off. A thousand words would come and go for mere coins, and then they'd come back here and sleep, and then repeat it all over again.

"Do yah think we could sell togethah today, Race?" Crutchie asked quietly, and suddenly.

"Why?"

"Leg's… stiff." The younger boy blushed. Race knew he hated asking for help. That's why he spared Crutchie of the embarrassment of saying when he really wanted to say, and so agreed.

…

After getting the papers under arm, the boys split as usual, each to the selling spot they'd claimed. Jack pulled Race aside as he started to move after Crutchie.

"Wheres you headed off to? Youse spots dah way."

"Crutchie asked for a partner in crime, yah see. Can't let the crip down." Race lifted his papers, "gotta go."

Jack looked suspicious, but shrugged. All the way across the street, Race felt Jack's eyes measuring their direction and steps. It was unusual for a Newsie to change their selling spot unless the customers died spots were reserved especially for each person. Albert liked going up and down a street that had been an outdoor market for as long as New York had been New York. Elmer and Henry had taken as of late to each side of one street packed with shops, as sort of a competition to see who was more successful in the same place. Jack took a walking route, tending towards dress shops and any store that sold sappy romance books and poetry or cloth. He was a ladies man, undeniably.

Now Romeo, Specs, Mush, Buttons, and all the others had their own places as well, but it was Race's that really stood apart. He prided himself for having picked the prime selling ground, and he prefered it over every other spot in the city, without question. It was the theatre, and he was right to like it. Theatre goers were like magnets to the News drama. They were rich, and they were there to be seen. The theatre didn't like people loitering, of course, but Race didn't consider himself "people."

This is why, when he followed Crutchie down a maze of back alleys, somehow struggling to keep up with the cripple, he felt dread pounding in his gut with each step. No one walked in the back alleys…. Crutchie must have been mad. There weren't any customers here.

"'Ey, Crutchie, wheres we goin'. Peoples is dat way, papes is dat way, dough is dat way!" he thrust a crooked finger over his shoulder.

Crutchie either didn't hear him, or simply ignored him.

When they emerged, Race almost slapped himself. Did Crutchie know he was selling only blocks away from the Refuge, and the Delancey brother's territory, no less? As they entered the busy street from a side alley, Race caught up and touched Crutchie on the shoulder.

"Watch yourself. Youse gonna get dah Spidah up on youse scent. Whad'ah'ya thinkin', Crutch, comin' 'ere?"

"Ise thinkin' it's always worked." Crutchie thrust the paper up as high as his crutch-supporting arm and his free one would allow, "Hey, Fifth avenue mansion robbed! $30,000 in cash missin'!" Crutchie limped forward, shaking the paper. A man gave him a short, dubious look as he passed.

"Dat's no good, Crutch." Race picked up a paper from his own stack and waved it in the air, "Robbah on da loose! Where hes' now!"

"How that any different?" Crutchie muttered. "Dat guy was just sour, Racer."

"Peoples get scared iffin they thinks theys next." The other boy whispered through his teeth. Louder, he continued his spiel,"Hey, Ma'am, robbah loose! All over! Finds out where hes now!"

A young face flashed with suspicion for a brief second as she glanced at them. Before they knew it she'd kept walking along and almost disappeared into the crowd.

"Youse sure dis is dah hotspot, Crutch?" Race glanced down his nose at his cigar. The thing was all but dead.

"Yeah! Look, it all goes with the limp, see. And the poy-son-al-it-ee!" He sobered up quickly and leaned double the weight on his crutch. Race watched in fascination as he dragged his gimp leg all the way to the ankle, chasing after the woman. He stumbled, and for a moment Race thought he was really falling. Instead he just caught himself on his knees and hung his head, wiping under his eye with the back of his hand. The young woman from earlier stopped to face him. Race watched her as she helped him back up. He couldn't hear what she was saying, but Crutchie was shrugging bashfully and still wiping his eyes, gesturing wildly to his pockets, and then pointing enthusiastically down the street.

 _Ah, the robbery, please help me out lady gig. Nice one Crip._ Race shook his head. The young woman eventually relented and handed him a coin. When he went to give her the paper, she pushed it away. Hands on his hips, grinning, Race watched as Crutchie held the quarter in the palm of his hand, close to his chest with the deepest, most sincere gratitude in his young face. Race couldn't tell if it was part of the act or actually genuine. He assumed the first. Crutchie wasn't that surprised, obviously. This was his turf. He knew the rules of the game. It was over in a minute when two all too familiar figures appeared behind him, one of them glaring at the young woman, and pointing her to a lamp post, which Race assumed was a sign for "wait there. We'll deal with you after." Then the two men took the back of Crutchie's shirt and pushed him into the closest alley. Race was running by now, but it was too late. Crutchie was cornered in the alley. The Delancey brothers were throwing kicks at his ribs as the teenage curled in on himself.

"Lay off 'im!" Race shoved Morris aside, falling to his knees in front of Crutchie.

"Not till he quits buggin' Anna."

"Annah?" Race stood cautiously, fists at the ready. "Goylfriend?" his accent thickened.

Oscar wiped his mouth where is was evident Crutchie had hit him with that lucky crutch, which now lay discarded on the wet ground. "Sistah."

Race didn't even get a punch in before a scrap of silver slashed the air and embedded itself into his thigh. Shocked, he felt himself crumple to the ground, and then was introduced to a deluge of boots basting his torso, face, and almost everywhere else except for his leg- or maybe that was just the agony pounding through his limb that desensitized the area. He was about to give in to the darkness, guilty for being unable to save Crutchie, sorry that they'd both wake up in the Refuge, or he'd wake up alone, dead, in hell. But as all of this was overwhelming his mind, the kicks stopped just as quickly as they'd begun. A scuffle could be heard as another familiar, angrier voice butted in.

 _Jack_? His mind echoed the name hopefully. If nothing else, he needed Jack.

A face came close to his, and hands came under his head. Race hadn't felt this out of it since his last hangover, about a month ago. Jack's frantic expression careened out of focus and then sharply clarified. Race's ears buzzed, and his face drained of all it's blood as he felt warm wetness under his hand beneath his thigh. The red was blinding.

"Cr'tchie," he murmured through bloodied lips.

Jack looked helplessly at both boys, but Crutchie especially, who was still down behind Race. And then the world went muffled tilted into grey nothing.

 **So there's chapter one! Hope you enjoyed, and please stay tuned for more, which hopefully, if I don't fall into the evil clutches of writer's block/homework, will be out soon.**


	2. Getting Nowhere Somehow

**Sorry it's shorter, but I'm on a time crunch for homework and stuff and break is almost here, so I'll be writing a lot more I hope. Here's the fruits of my labor, the product of loss of sleep and a day of stage-handing. Enjoy!**

Race woke up with a fabulous headache. His thigh was splitting, and as a cry of anguish breached his lips, hands pushed him gently down.

"Hey, hey, Race. Youse good, kid. Just lay still. Gonna get yah doctah, 'kay?" Jack's voice moved through the haze like a gentle embrace, a firm grip to reality.

"Jeck?" he moaned through his teeth, "What 'appened?"

"Youse got it kid, real good, Race. Got some metal in your thigh, buddy, sos you gotta stay real still. Jus' take it easy kid."

Race heard Romeo's voice arguing with Jack. He could feel the vibrations of a set of footsteps taking off. Romeo could be heard again, one last time before he slipped out of it.

"We'se don' have dah money. What's he thinkin'?"

….

Jack returned at dark with a young man in a long black coat, whose eyes were hard and serious. His jaw tightly clenched, he kneeled first in front of Crutchie. The boy's swollen eyes were only cracked. His bad leg hung off the side of the bed; even now, hours after the event, he couldn't catch his breath. His ribcage felt hot and painful on each inhale, and achingly sore with each exhale.

"Go help Racer," he murmured through a split lip. He smiled carefully, "he's gotta be okay."

The doctor shrugged, and moved on to the older boy.

His demeanor completely changed when he knelt next to the bed. The sheets were tangled and bloody under his left leg, and his chest was heaving. He didn't come around after Jack slapped him gently on the cheek.

"How long ago was he stabbed?" the doctor asked.

"Uh, um," Jack scrambled to think. His hands raked his hair.

"Dis mornin'. Doc, Ise hurtin' real bad," Race stared blearily up at them. "'S Crutchie okay?"

"Crutchie? That's a... colorful name." The doctor inspected the makeshift tourniquet that had been put on Race's leg hours ago.

"Yeah. He's okay, 'danks tah you." Jack ruffled Race's hair.

"Alright, you need to hold pressure on the wound while I remove the tourniquet."

"The what, now?" Jack stared at him, "oh yeah, the belt…"

He put his hands over the bloody rip in Race's pants, pressing down gingerly.

"More pressure, Mr. Kelly."

"Hell, none o' dat. Jack."

"Um, then, Jack, keep the pressure steady. Here we go."

As soon as the tourniquet was removed, Race reached down for his leg.

"Hey, Jack, m' leg feels funny."

"The blood is circulating back into it. Keep the pressure on there. Good."

The doctor drew out a small knife from his bag.

"Hey! Hey! Youse didn't say youse gonna take the leg!" Jack yelled. It was all he could do not to sock the guy. But he had to keep the pressure. Even now his hands were covered in his brother's blood.

"I'm not taking the leg, not if I don't have to. We have to cut his pants away."

"He only has the ones." Jack gestured to the dark brown trousers, a little ripped, but still more valuable than this doctor knew.

"He can have his trousers or his life." The man replied. "Make the choice." Jack relented.

After the leg of the trousers was slit up the side, Jack momentarily removed his hand to reveal the three inch long, deep wound. Jack leaned away. He saw a stripe of bone under the torn skin. The doctor didn't make a sound, but grimaced slightly, and at this point Race had passed out again.

"Hand me that bottle."

Jack picked up the small clear bottle, filled with strong smelling, brownish liquid. Liquor. The doctor gave Jack a look, and the boy took a firm grip on Race's shoulder and upper thigh as the man poured the alcohol over the wound. Race bit back a scream as he was wrenched from sleep.

"Sorry, buddy."

The doctor stitched up Race's leg, and gave him some light painkillers. He moved over to Crutchie.

The boy stirred, and asked in a quiet voice, "Is Race better?"

"He's gonna be, Crutchie, before yah know it."

The doctor had Crutchie sit up so he could take off his shirt and examine his ribs. When he was finished he concluded that four were broken, and there were probably many more fractures he couldn't see. Crutchie had a mild concussion, and his leg was pretty siff.

"Probably just dah weathah changin'," he muttered, embarrassed.

The doctor found no other broken bones, but he did pull Jack aside after getting paid for his services.

"I wasn't going to tell you this. No point in killing hopes, but my conscience won't leave me be. The older boy, Race, as you call him… that leg is what worries me. Blood loss he may recover from. Don't let him up for a few days, until he regains his balance. But the knife went in deep. He may be crippled if the bone shattered."

"Can't you fix 'dat doc? Didn't you?" Jack glanced at Race, who was sleeping with a hand tightly clutching his spasming leg.

"There are some things we still can't see and change in the human body son, like bone fragments, at least not all of them. They could sever an artery, or hinder the healing process. There's a good chance he'll never walk with that leg the same way again."

The doctor left then, taking with him the promise and hope they'd had before, when there was a chance Race would go back to what he used to be- energetic, healthy, filling the boys with life and exaggeration and quick-paced wit. But no more. Race was pale and weak and quiet, except for his labored breathing.

…

On his fire escape, with a gentle few fingers of wind in his hair, Jack Kelly paced hopelessly. His mind was too busy to draw, and his hands were too asleep to even try. The skin on his hands was tightening with drying blood, Race's blood. Crutchie too was in bad shape. His bound chest meant he could barely breathe, and his eyes were swollen and bruised. The kid was really warm too. He and Race got soaked bad, but Jack's mind kept running in circles and finding itself back at Race. What if he never walked again? What if he couldn't learn to adapt, like Crutchie had, to take life seriously as a job and not just give up? How would they afford medication if his leg pained him for the rest of his life. Jack wouldn't toss him out like garbage. That was the one thing he could be sure of. His penthouse, his brothers, his record, and Crutchie and Race's resilience were auspicious. But nothing was for certain. A few years ago a guy from Queens got a fractured shoulder, and his whole arm was paralyzed. Jack only knew about it because the kid had been Copper Leer, the big cheese in Queens. Copper was tough as nails, even though Jack only knew him as a twelve year old. The kid was bright- could have been a lawyer, anything he wanted if only he hadn't been poor and in the right place at the wrong time. His was found almost a month after he went missing, in an abandoned house in the basement. What they found wasn't pretty, and neither was the story. The point was, he'd seen guys turn on a dime when bad luck hit. Race was a drinker, a smoker, a gambler, and everything else that meant street trash to rich guys, like Pulitzer, or even middle guys with low-life positions, like Snyder and Wiesel.

"Dammit." He sat down, crossing his shaking legs. Jack's face began to fall slowly into his hands. Jack Kelly never cried. Not for love, not for hate. He didn't cry on the streets or on the tough days. But alone, bitter, confused… Jack Kelly cried for himself.

 **So. Fun stuff. Hope you guys are still hangin' in there with my disorganized, totally random and rambling plot, and completely unedited paragraphs of me trying to express why everyone should love Race and Crutchie and Jack and everybody.**

 **Oh yeah, and today I mastered a New York accent, and I am pretty psyched about that. Helps writing it too, so if you're a writer, go look up how to do it. It's really fun. Anyhow, good night everyone, and thanks for reading!**


	3. A Permanent Box at the Sheepshead

**Yes, I'm back from the dead. Sorry guys. Got chapter three of When it Gets Dark up. Both of these stories have no plot, they are just going, so I hope that explains all the unrealistic situations and whump overload. I'm a sucker for H/C. Anyways, sorry for the unedited stuff. If it says something that sounds weird it's probably definitely my autocorrect. My old readers know this when I say that I have the weirdest autocorrect in the history of autocorrect. It will literally take the correct word and switch it into the incorrect version (I'll type Medal, and it will turn it into Metal. Really irritating.) Another note on this story is that I don't know the racing season dates or whatever for New York in 1899, so I've made them up. I've helped train racers, but I am clueless as to their schedule. But Sheepshead does come in later, so that's why I mentioned it.**

 **Thanks for bearing with me, and as you know…**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. But we'se practically bruddahs, me an' Jeck, so who's judgin'?**

Crutchie was able to sit up the next morning, but he was still pretty weak. His time upright caused him to sleep even harder when Race finally did wake up.

Race found his way to consciousness through the torching pain that his leg provided.

 _Probably missed the afternoon races…._ He thought as his eyes cracked open. The branches of a skeleton tree with stiff and pale buds outside the window shuddered. Oh. Sheepshead wasn't open for another month at least. _How much time did I lose?_ Where was Jack?

He tried to sit up, but unseen daggers began to peel the skin off of his leg. He laid back, gasping. So, that's how it was.

"Fine," he ground out, "Youse gonna play dat card? Fine!" He swung his legs over the bed in one go, doubling over. While his head was still pounding, he could feel an arm across his chest, and another pair gently moving his legs again. When his head cleared, Jack and Specs were standing over him. The other guys were throwing down jackets, and kicking back onto their bunks.

"How's it, Race?"

"How's what?"

"Dah leg, stupid." Jack shooed Specs away and crouched down, folding his arms on the edge of the bed. "Oh, 'an Crutchie's good, 'danks for askin'."

"I didn't-"

"I ain't stupid, Race. Sarcasm. Evah heard of it? What where you thinking? You woulda been killed!" Jack stood up and started to pace, gesturing wildly. Behind him, Romeo snickered. A dime novel flew at his head a moment later.

"I know I know! But it's not my fault Jeck, look, I'se got dah leg now, tah prove it!" Race scrambled for words, feeling helpless on his back.

"Well dats great, dats just great. Two crips, bettah than just one, ain't it?"

"Crip?" Race asked slowly. "I'se not gonna…. Jeck, I'se not gonna be a crip!" But it sounded so much like a question that Jack put his hand on his forehead and pushed back his dark hair.

"Ugh, Race. Truth it I was worried for yah. Look, you barely made it. Youse got tah take it slow. I'se just sayin'... Well, I don't know what I'se sayin'. You got a fat chance of nevah walkin' dah same." Jack's eyes started to lose their anger, but they were still firm. "But I hav'tah know it wasn't 'cause of your stupidity."

Race let it all fall over him. His hands twisted the thin fabric of his shirt over his chest. "Jus' a goyl, Jeck, jus' some goyl Crutchie saw. Delancy's sistah."

"Delancy's- what dah heck, do dey even have a sistah?!"

"Take a looksee," he gestured to his leg. "Look, Ise not tryin' to pass dah blame."

"I know, Race." Jack's eyebrows drew together. He looked away. "You think you could eat?"

"Yeah."

Jack turned to leave the room to get something for Race.

"Uh, Jeck… do you happen tah have a cigar, by chance?"

A dime novel flew across the room from Albert's direction, "It's a little spitty, but it's yours in a heartbeat, buddy boy." Race heard Jack laugh and jog down the stairs.

"If I weren't flat on my back you'd be rollin' on yours!" Race waited for the reply.

"Hey, knock it off!"

A cigar appeared on Race's chest as a figure walked by.

"Thanks Romeo."

"Anytime."

….

Crutchie, though he took a good soaking, went back to work two days later, selling closer to home. Race, however, had to recover, and relearn how to walk.

The first days, about a week after the incident, were hell. He could only take laps when there were people around, and those people were usually Jack and Specs, the only two tall enough to support him. The sharp, grinding pain in his thigh didn't improve with a month. Not with two. Sheepshead opened again, and he gave his winter selling spot- the theatre- to Crutchie, at least while the racing season was underway. But the races went on faster than he could and Race slowly sank deeper in despair into the idea that his leg wasn't the same. The scar was ugly, and thick, and made his skin tight and reddish. The leg felt a little crooked when he walked. The doctor couldn't come again to tell them any more; they could barely afford to feed Race while he was out. What made things worse was Crutchie gifting him a new crutch, which Race could only assume he'd bought with his own money. He couldn't bring himself to touch the thing. Not until he had to.

One morning in late May, Race had had enough. He woke earlier than all the other Newsboys, straightened his long-unused cap, and stuck a cigar in his mouth. He glanced at the crutch. Eventually he would have to use the hateful thing. Eventually had come. He left a note and tried to walk using as little support on the crutch as possible. But he fell four times. Four. A new record for him.

So he hobbled. Racetrack Higgins, known for darting around the races like a pro, known for escaping the consequences of a fake headline by disappearing in a flaming sprint…. Racetrack Higgins did not hobble. Well, he didn't used to.

Race got his papes before the others even got there, ignoring Weasel's grim glare, and the Delancy's slightly astonished faces as he limped past.

On his way to Sheepshead, he sold twenty-two of his 100 papes without even shouting the headline. It was only eight o'clock, which wasn't a bad time to start work, but it felt like a dreaded number for Race, who was used to getting into the races by before seven-thirty. It was a long walk from 'hattan to Brooklyn. It felt longer today.

His limp made women look sad, and pause as he went by. It made men look away uncomfortably. But mostly it made people point and whisper. Sure, most of them didn't care at all. But Race could only see the ones whose eyes held pity or shame for him. Crutchie could have never explained with words how this felt, but Race knew now. He couldn't weave in and out of the boxes. Instead he had to stay with the flow of the crowd. Weak with frustration, he finally settled on a corner next to a pile of crates near one of the entrances. Beautiful ladies in pale blues and charming wine reds swept past him. Fine men took their arms, silk vests glistening, shoes gleaming, watch chains polished to a fine shine.

Race's sweaty hands felt his pocket, fingers caressing the perfect gold of his own watch.

Finally he got down to business. He decided not to be too obvious, and so leaned back against the wall.

"Mayor's biggest scandals revealed! Read it now!" he called, waving the pape around wildly.

With this and other like headlines, he tightly but discreetly folded the paper before he handed it to the customer so that they would be a distance away before they realized they'd been cheated. By then he could hobble to the next main entrance and get a fresh reputation.

This exhausting routine continued all day, until night fell and he realized he hadn't seen a single horse that day. That was half the reason he sold at Sheepshead. Disappointed and cold, Race stumbled home, four lonely papers fluttering in his bag, alone in the dark.

 **Thanks for reading! Cheers!**


	4. Youse my Bruddah

**And here's where it gets interesting…. Oooh, and check out the A/N at the end to hear an announcement and a sneak peak of a new story. I'm wrapping this one and When it gets Dark up and going for a longer one, which I'm pretty excited about.**

 **Thanks for sticking with this, guys, and enjoy!**

 **Oh, and the song Race sings in the beginning is sung to the tune of Carrying the banner, just much slower and sadder, with all the strings and touchy feely works.**

As he passed the dark houses, the lamplighter followed closely behind him. Stumbling, he felt his cheeks flush red as he adjusted the crutch under his sore arm.

He began to sing, slowly, softly, as the light grew behind him and he limped home.

"Well it's a fine life…. Carryin' the banner undah arm…. A mighty fine life, fighting for dah right tah have a home! When life beats yah, no one gives a damn… even though dey knows where I am, but still day miss me…. I need somethin' to change soon…. A mighty fine life, still here harkin' headlines to dah moon…"

He paused outside the an alley as he heard rough breathing. A figure hunched over, clutching his wrist, kneeling in the grime of a New York trash pit.

"Hey kid." He limped over, dropping his papes. The stand had closed by now; Weasel wouldn't buy them back if Race hunted him down and begged on his knees. Helping the kid up, he wiped his hand awkwardly on his trousers.

"Erm… Racetrack Higgens….." ugh, formal introductions were lost on him. He chuckled nervously as the kid drew back.

"Go 'way, Crip." The boy mumbled.

Although the words stung like whiskey on a cut, Race could only think about how familiar the voice sounded. It made his heartbeat pick up. He couldn't see the kid; the lamplighter was still lighting the lamp before this nearest one.

"Jus' tryin' tah help. No need tah explode little man."

"I ain't little, Crip, now buzz off. I'se got folks tah get to."

"Well den why ain't yah gettin'?" Race swept his hand out to the street. "Youse a bad liar kid. But I think I knows yah."

"Course you do, idiot. Ole Iron Knuckles and his bruddah. Only ones stuck up undah Snydah's thumb and the other… well he ran off tah hide."

"Morris?" Race drew back as the light came on and the sound of the retreating lamplighter filled the mostly empty back street.

"Yeah, so?"

The fifteen year old clutched a mangled and most likely broken wrist to his chest. His eyes were hard and filled with tears but also with the pride that wouldn't let them fall.

"You dirty son of a-"

"Nah, Race, don' go cursin' my muddah. She wasn't very good at bein' one, but she don' deserve your fast tongue. Listen, I'm sorry about dah soakin'."

"Well sorry fixes dah leg, don' it?" Race turned, but Morris stopped him with his good hand.

"No listen, I am, really. Dat girl… she wasn't my sister, but she's undah Snyder too."

"Oh, well dats nice. But dats also a trap. I'm not gonna kiss up tah you cause youse claimin' you didn't do anything wrong. Ah nah, you 'ave a great mind, Morris. You could'a walked away."

"Race, look at my arm. Snyder and his goons don' have any reason tah wait to ditch us in a river. We ain't dat valuable, just good at soakin', and well, when youse good at somethin', people notice."

"And the knife? Yah had tah knife me sos you could put yah heart into it? I almost died, and dat ain't just a fair soakin'."

"Snyder gave me the knife, and he wanted it back with blood, but not a death record. Listen, Race, I don't know what's in his head. He was lookin' to take you all in, I bet, while you were down, Kelly included. But what's happening to you, it's happening to us too. My bruddah got soaked, and now he's bleeding out at Snyder's place. I've got a feelin' if I hadn't escaped I would be too."

"So whad'a yah want me to do?"

"I didn't ask for your help, Higgins. You were just at the wrong place at the wrong time. Just know that I ain't in this for the fun. Them brass knuckles we got? Birthday gift when we both turned ten. Oscar got his, den a couple years and I got mine. But Snyder's got it in his head he can take in your whole nest, and we're stuck with helping him, unless he does things to them kids in there you wouldn't want to know about."

"But I do." Race snarled bitterly. "Go die in a guttah, Delancy. I can't trust that mouth of yours, not after dah fists, and not aftah dah leg."

"Well Snyder's got Oscar. If you're so into my business, maybe you and Kelly have got something up your sleeves to help me. Or us." Morris' quiet voice made Race stop hobbling away. He sighed, and glanced down at his weak, painful leg. Morris' wrist looked pretty bad, and Race knew personally what Snyder could do to a kid when he was angry, so Oscar couldn't be that much better off.

"Fine. Follow me."

…

Crutchie looked up from a small scrappy looking notebook when Race came hobbling in. He was alone.

"Race!" He hopped to his feet, somehow getting the crutch expertly under arm before he toppled over. Before Race could open his mouth, Crutchie had thrown his arm around the older boy. "We thought for sure dat Snydah musta…. Well, dah guys are out looking for yah now."

Race suppressed a noise of surprise. He didn't figure they cared that much. "I'm fine, Crutchie. But there's somethin' yah should see an' know about."

"What?"

"He's outside."

Crutchie made a perplexed face, but followed wordlessly. The sound of Race's heavy breathing and the two crutches thudding on the stairs filled the silence of the lodging house. When they reached the first floor, Race stopped to reveal his discovery.

"Delancy…" Crutchie snarled. He turned sharply to Race, "What's he doin' here?"

"Foist you gotta promise youse gonna listen to dah end."

Crutchie glanced bitterly at the shaking teenager in the doorway, his wrist still held tightly in anguish. His heart beat a little faster. The kid looked scared. Heck, the kid was as old as he was.

"Fine."

…

Jack swung open the lodging house door in total defeat. He whipped his cap off his head and didn't bother to hang back with the other guys to talk it out. At the top of the stairs he opened the door to the bunkroom.

Crutchie was sleeping in his bunk, his bad leg dangling over the side, foot characteristically turned in.

But then there was still a candle lit. A figure huddled close over another, who was sleeping. Unfamiliar shoes poked out of the end of the blanket.

"Hey, waddah'ya doin'!" he yelled, nevermind that Crutchie was asleep.

Race turned to Jack. "I can explain."

"Racetrack! We was lookin' all ovah for you!" Jack's eyebrows drew together. "Why's Morris Delancey in yer bunk? We thought Snydah had gotcha this time."

"Listen, it's hard to explain, but I'll tell it straight as I can. Dah Delancies is undah Snydah's thumb."

"Sos dats news?"

"Nah, yah not gettin' it. Dey's unwillingly beatin' our guys up, sos Snydah won't do things to dah uddah kids in dah Refuge. He broke Morris' arm, an' dah kid says he's got Oscar soaked real good."

"An' why do you care?"

"I'se a crip, Jeck. I ain't got much goin' for me, and look, besides, it would stop dah soakin' problem."

Jack closed his eyes and exhaled. "Fine. What should we do?"

"Help me set dah wrist and den we'se gonna break Oscar out."

"Youse gonna what?!" Jack's eyes turned fiery. "Look, breakin' Crutchie out was one thing. We had a lotta good guys who had a plan. Youse doin' this on a whim, and besides, can you trust dah wimps who been beatin' up on yah for as long as you've been a Newsie?"

"Jeck, what if it was Crutchie back in dere? Look you don' need a plan. If you was in dah Delancey's spot, you'd want someone tah care 'bout you."

"Let's set the wrist first."

He knelt down next to Morris, who was passed out with his bad arm extended.

"Looks bad." Jack rolled up his sleeves, and set to work.

…

They planned on tomorrow night to break Oscar out. But for tonight, Race lay on his back, his hand massaging the tight muscles in his aching leg. Everyone else was asleep, so Race closed his eyes and listened to the night. Feet slapped the street outside the open window, and a breeze carrying the sound and smell of music and dinner rushed around him.

Someone slammed a door. Mice clicked their tiny feet against stone as they scrambled inside the walls.

And then a sharp thump, followed by a bigger heavier one. This one was inside the room. It repeated itself, and finally Race cracked his eyes open.

Crutchie sat in the window, his crutch leaning against the wall. The tattered cotton curtains shivered around the silhouette. Crutchie's bad leg was hanging inside the window, dragging on the floor, and his good one was set carefully on the windowsill, hugged to his chest.

Race sat up and eased himself off the bed. He left his crutch and limped heavily. The eight steps it took him to get to his friend were painful and exhausting, but he felt pride swelling in his chest. Maybe he wasn't going to be a crip forever.

He eased himself to the floor, facing Crutchie. The younger boy looked off at the faraway glare of the city. Tears glinted on his face.

"Nightmare?" Race reached in his pocket for a cigar.

"Nah." Crutchie laughed quietly, trying to brush away his shame, Race sensed. "Race, I'se sorry about dah leg."

"Whadd'a yah mean?"

"It's my fault youse in dis mess. Shoulda nevah asked you tah sell wi' me."

"Yeah, well den you woulda been a fool. A dead fool. I don't blame yah kid. Sure, crutch don' suit me… mebbe it won't havta. But we's like crutch-bruddahs now." He smiled at the kid. "Although I wish was was jus' straight up bruddahs. I'se takin' youse business. I'se dah new crip!" he pointed to himself, shifting the cigar in his mouth. Crutchie made a gesture for him to knock it off. But the younger boy's face fell a little, after the jesting wore off into the chill of a New York night.

"An' what happens if yah don't need dah crutch?"

The corner of Race's mouth lifted a little. "Hey kid, even den youse always my bruddah."

"Honest?"

"An'tony Higgen's don't lie!"

Crutchie burst out laughing, and Race's eyes widened when he realized his mistake.

"An'tony? Dats yah real name!?"

"Sound's stupid to yah too?"

"Nah. An'tony. I likes it. I'se Andrew Morris."

Race tilted his head away from the light. "But Crutchie for short."

"Youse got it."

The sounds of breathing boys made the silence after bearable. Uncertainty was like a building about to fall in on their heads, and it seemed to build when Race glanced at Morris. He still couldn't trust Morris with his life, or Oscar. But then he glanced at Crutchie. This was the right thing to do. No, the Delancey's weren't for certain on their side. But his brother was. They all were. He didn't have to move back to bed to feel he was safe; and Crutchie climbed out of the window as music began to play from below, just another lonely street musician. They fell asleep leaned against each other, just two kids against the world. But then, they'd face the World before. What could stop them now?

 **Yay! Curtains close! I hope everyone enjoyed this story, and I apologize again for any inaccuracies and/or spelling stuff and plot holes. As I said, totally unedited. Thank you so much to all of you who reviewed and followed and favorited and gave me so much support, because as my writer pals all know, it feeds the muses.**

 **So, anyway, I've got a tiny sneak peek into MY NEXT STORY! I'm really excited about this one, because I'm hoping to go longer with it. I don't know when I'll post the first chapter because this is a story based on a real event, and I have to do some research, but here is the summary and sneak peek!**

 **(sorry in advance, I suck at summaries) Summary: The Newsboy Strike of 1899 was big news. But they couldn't have done it without Brooklyn, and that's a fact. But Brooklyn wasn't new to strikes. As told by the King of Brooklyn, Spot Conlon, this is the story of the real life Brooklyn Newsboy strike of 1896.**

(Spot POV)

As fair warning, I'm gonna tell yah some things dat might make you wanna t'row down yah pape and boin it. But dey's real, and dey's not gonna disappear just cause we want em to. I'se tellin' you because I didn't have a say den, an' now I do. Dis is a warnin, Jack Kelly. Strikes is big. Yah can't go inta dis wid'out givin' up control of all you think you can keep close. Youse gonna lose everything if you wanna do it dat way.

First off, be prepared to lose somethin's. Peoples is so breakable, dat if you try to stand in front of you's guys, youse gonna end up standin' on em. Give em some rein. Deys big boys. Youse gotta learn tah work wit' em, not for em.

Second, an' dis is from experience- dem fools don' undahstand. Don' befriend dah enemy, Kelly. Deys always gonna come in dah end, tah stick a knife in yah back sos dey can forget how good you might have been tah dem. Loin from me, it nevah woiks out.


End file.
